


By Luck or Design

by Lucy_Claire



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-02 21:18:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17271305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucy_Claire/pseuds/Lucy_Claire
Summary: Marinette scored her first job designing a dress to be modeled by Chloé Bourgeois, and if things go well she could one day helm an entire campaign for her mother's label. But at the after-party, she bumps into non-other than Adrien Agreste and photographers catch them in a comprising position.To avoid media scrutiny or a scandal, Adrien suggests they make the best of their situation by pretending to be a couple. That way, he gets admirers off his back and to humanize the Agreste brand through Adrien’s public image and she gets free promotion for her work and furthers her connections in the fashion industry.They have until Paris Fashion Week to play the media game. After then, they ‘break up’ and go their separate ways.It's a win-win scenario...until she starts falling in love with him for real.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted in anything since '17 go easy on me

 

_"Luck is the residue of design" -- John Milton_

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, Marinette wondered, just how random were coincidences and what percentage of them counted as ‘luck’?

On top of that, if one were to believe in luck, why was calling someone ‘lucky’ only considered a good thing when there was also ‘bad luck’ and, importantly, ‘dumb luck’?

The point she was getting at was, if there were such a thing, she hoped the fates would finally go easy on her and grant her the good kind today, because boy, did she need it.

Considering the amount of accidents, missteps and redoes she had involving this dress this season, she felt that her trajectory was either a small success or a straight-up disaster.

It had been less than a year since she graduated, and even less so since she was given the task of making a dress to be displayed during the infamous Bal de Débutantes, where girls from typically rich or famous families, modeled dresses and jewelry for brands.

Now that, she could have called good luck, but whether being saddled with Chloé Bourgeois as her model was a good or bad thing, that remained to be seen. Marinette hadn’t met too many professional models in design school, but Chloé had to be among the worst, likely because she hadn’t been scouted or trained or done anything to deserve this job.

If dumb luck were a person, it would be Chloé, who was among the new crop of nepotism in the fashion industry, the children of bankers, politicians, celebrities or even former models getting a jumpstart to fame, booking shows and campaigns based on their names rather than looks or talent. Nowadays it didn’t matter if you were any good, if you had the look or the personality, you just had to have the right number of followers on social media.

In Chloé’s case, she was the daughter of both a politician and a former model-turned-fashion magazine editor, giving her double the exposure, the press and the influence that any other girl at the ball today had. The hope was that today would be her first brush with exposure, and that many would possibly see her name attached to pictures of the dress, and in turn follow her.

At least she hoped so, because she hadn’t the slightest idea how to get followers on Instagram. After years of asking nicely, she couldn’t get many of her own classmates to follow her personal fashion blog, how was she going to get total strangers care about her work, and maybe one day buy her designs?

Taking in a deep breath, she went back to work, straightening out the antsy Chloé’s dress, checking that the striped skirt was even all around. The last thing she needed was for a piece to fall out or for the petticoat to collapse as she walked down the runway. That would be deadly levels of embarrassment and she would probably never get another job in haute couture again.

She’s probably be stuck doing the actual work behind the vanity projects of whatever flash-in-the-pan celebrity to ‘design’ their own clothing line.

“Hurry up!” Chloé stomped on her podium. “We don’t have all day.”

“The show doesn’t start until two,” Marinette reminded her with a fed-up sigh. She pulled the back of the dress together with one hand and held the zipper with the other. “Suck in.”

She took in a loud breath, sucking in her stomach as Marinette zipped up the dress. Chloé then let out the air with a frustrated groan. “I know, but Mother has to approve everything first. This is only my second spin as a debutante, and I don’t want things to go like last year.”

Marinette cringed. Last year’s ball had been the talk of the town around her part of campus, Chloé’s dress, along with three others, had fallen apart as headed down the catwalk, with Chloé herself getting the wrong kind of exposure.

To be brief, she had flashed the audience.

“I swear if I see that snake today, I will get her deported from France.”

“Who?” Sabrina, Chloé’s assistant and weirdly co-dependent best friend, had arrived, her ginger hair windswept and her face red with exertion. In her arms were the packs of pricey junk food Chloé was due to pig out once the show was over, breaking her month-long, pre-show cleanse.

“You know exactly who!” Chloé shouted offendedly, making both Marinette and Sabrina jump. “That stupid Italian girl who thinks she can show me up! But I’ll show her who’s boss!”

“Don’t you mean show her who’s queen,” Marinette suggested, stepping back to survey her work.

After months and months of sketching designs, crumpling them up, tossing them at the wall and debating tweaks and additions with the brat before her, Marinette had created a dress worthy of them both. Today’s theme was spring, and while most of the girls were in floral designs or patterns, Chloé was the sole bee. Her dress was a sleeveless pale-gold top, with black satin straps pinned with gold, bee-shaped clasps, then it all dipped into the layered bell-shaped skirt with black and gold angular stripes on the front and back, emulating a bee's tail, and alternating geometric patterns on the sides. Even her hair was styled like a beehive for good measure.

Chloé shook her first, fired up. “You’ve got that right!”

A ringtone interrupted their moment. Sabrina whipped out Chloé’s phone, nearly dropping it like a wet soap bar a few times before it was snatched from her. Chloé broke out into an excited squeal, jumping up and down on her step, jostling the skirt and nearly undoing her hairstyle. “Adrikins has arrived!”

“Who’s that?” Marinette asked, trying to get to hold still. Her hair was going to need a lot more hairspray to hold under her excitable state.

“My cavalier! The one who’s going to escort me!”

She couldn’t help snorting at the title. Cavalier, literally knight, were the young men that escorted the debutantes, usually brothers or boyfriends, but sometimes they were chosen for the girls. As far as Marinette knew, Chloé hadn’t had one until now, so the situation must have been shaky.

“No, I meant who is ‘Adrikins’?”

“Only the hottest male model of the decade, Adrien Agreste,” she cooed. “He’s been crazy busy lately, and he didn’t think his manager and father would let him come, since he’s got such a tight schedule and everything, but he’s here!”

Oh, great, another nepotism model, just what Marinette needed to entertain today.

Then, as she replayed her words, her thoughts snagged on a single mention. “Did you say Agreste? As in Gabriel Agreste?”

“Who else, dummy? Adrien’s his son, we’ve known each other since we were kids,” she said, tossing her phone back to Sabrina, who fumbled with it yet again.

Interest flared within her. While she didn’t care for whatever spoiled little monster that Adrien probably was, she was fascinated by the thought of getting to meet his father. Gabriel Agreste was a designer Marinette had grown to admire ever since she found out that he had funded her full-ride scholarship to Chambre Syndicale. She would give anything to apprentice under him.

One problem, she was never the most social person, not in a business sense. She didn’t know how to make connections, let alone parlay any base connection into a bigger one, or even a job. How was she going to make small-talk with Agreste’s stupid son and turn that into a personal meeting with the man himself?

She doubted Chloé would be able to do that for her, the girl had the tact and subtly of an anvil. If she weren’t an heiress born with connections, who banked on her looks in this industry, she would have bombed job interviews across the board.

On cue, Audrey Bourgeois, Chloé’s fussy American mother, and Marinette’s current employer, burst in. She was in a cream-and-gold pantsuit with its jacket over her shoulders like a cloak, and her brunette bob was freshly cut without a single hair out of place. She looked over her daughter with cold concentration, rocketing Marinette’s anxiety through the ceiling, then, she nodded.

“Great job, Marie, you’ve made my daughter look halfway presentable,” Audrey said snidely. “We better not have another incident like last year.”

“Mother, I told you, it wasn’t my fault. That bitch Lila sabotaged my dress!”

Audrey slid on her shades with a sigh. “Still telling tall tales, Claudette? Whatever, just don’t say anything stupid to her at the party tonight and all should be fine.”

“She’s here?” Chloé squawked, stepping off her podium, following her mother out the door with Sabrina on her trail.

“Of course, she’s here, Céline.” Audrey waved off her complaint. “

“How dare she show her face back here, I told her if she came back, I’d have Daddy deport her!”

Though Marinette had never met this infamous Lila, she had heard enough about her from the gushing of the other debutantes and even from Alya’s amateur journalism blog, and it was safe to say, the persona she had crafted was, to quote Chloé, _utterly ridiculous._ This girl had apparently traveled the world, negotiated diplomatic deals, inspired amendments in foreign courts, met various celebrities, turned several actors, had singers write songs about her and characters inspired by her. Anyone who spewed that amount of lies had to be pretty conniving, to say the least.

“Lila’s an Italian on a visitor’s visa, not a citizen, Chloé,” Marinette reminded her, chuckling behind her hand. “And your father can’t deport anyone, he’s only a mayor.”

She hmphed loudly at Marinette’s correction, but her anger was short-lived as they reached the main floor, where all the other debutantes were gathering, standing with their parents, escorts and designers.

Chloé broke into a run, throwing herself onto a blond man with a squeal of “ADRIEEEEEN!”

The man caught her with a laugh. “Hey, great to finally see you!”

She stepped back, giving him a twirl in her dress. “What do you think?”

Marinette didn’t get to hear his answer, she had been too distracted by the rest of him to pay attention to his voice.

Male models fell into three categories, androgynous pretty boys, beefy underwear models and arguably-pretty boys who liked like addicts. Nepotism models, were usually plain or dull as dishwater. But all male models had one thing in common, they were obnoxious and dumb as hell. One of the small-time practice models that she had worked with back at school had thought the Moon was a small, nighttime sun and another had asked her if she had diet water in her fridge. Diet. _Water._

But none of that mattered now, because in terms of looks, he had won the genetic lottery and had every right to be a model.

If anything, he was the closest to the sun god Apollo anyone would ever see.

He was taller than them all, six-feet easy, with a slim, athletic build and a healthy glow that permeated in his tan skin and the teeth of his big, bright smile that made her knees threaten to buckle. He had sun-streaked golden hair that fell in an artfully messy mop atop his head, framing his high cheekbones, and the beach waves in his fringe cast shadows over his curved brows, but nothing could dull his big, upturned eyes.

They were an intense shade of yellowish-green, like the eyes of a black cat, and they gleamed with humor.

Then, he spoke to her.

“What?” she said dumbly, blinked distractedly.

He chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made her heartbeat stutter. “I said you’re very talented, you’ve really captured Chloé’s essence in this dress.”

She had attempted to thank him, but what came out of her mouth was her own fat, numb tongue, making her babble senselessly like a baby.

Oh, this was bad. How was she supposed to talk to him about anything involving work or opportunities if she couldn’t string a sentence together? It’s not like she was that much of a conversationalist to begin with. So, not only will Marinette never hustle and schmooze her way into a good career, she will also never manage to land a boyfriend, because every time she talked to a guy, she thought was cute, _this_ happened.

By the time Marinette had gotten a grip, her chance to build upon his mention of her work had passed. Adrien had linked arms with Chloé as the doors opened and organizers quickly ushered the debutantes and their cavaliers out.

“Are you coming, Marianne?” Audrey asked as she sashayed after her daughter.

She sighed, slumping her shoulders as she dragged her feet. “Yes, Madame Bourgeois.”

The ball went on without a hitch. Marinette sat with the Bourgeois and Sabrina, until Adrien sat by them, too far for her to attempt small-talk with him. Once the show aspect of the ball was done, the charity function-part commenced. Adrien had apparently arrived with a check to donate, and subsequently disappeared as people began piling into the ballroom, where food, drinks, journalists and photographers were.

She wished Alya were here. Instead, the most she could do was text her during the show to avoid making awkward eye contact with people and send her updates and pictures of the whole thing.

“Marinette!” Chloé called in a sing-song tone as she rushed over, Sabrina behind her with two glasses of wine. “Guess who’s the talk of the town?”

“Don’t you mean ‘toast of the town’?”

Chloé dismissed her with a limp-wristed toss. “Whatever. The point is everyone can’t get enough of my dress, they keep saying the design is a—what did Cindy Crawford say, Sabrina?”

“A stroke of genius!” Sabrina quoted, hanging Marinette a glass of wine. “Congratulations for a successful first outing, Marinette.”

“Thanks, Sabrina.” Taking the glass, Marinette felt herself deflate with relief. She had been anticipation everything from a wardrobe malfunction to people simply hating Chloé’s dress—hating her idea and design. This was good! Great, even!

Chloé gave them another excited twirl. “Consider yourself booked for the foreseeable future, Marinette. And don’t let me catch you making any clothes for any of my rivals, especially not Lila Rossi.”

Smiling around the rim of her glass, Marinette asked, “Make? Okay, but what if I lend them something, like a shoe or a jacket from the closet?”

“You don’t lend anyone anything!”

“Not even a hair-tie or a bobby pin?” Marinette teased, working her up even more.

“Not even a used toothpick!”

Sabrina and her cracked up, urging Chloé to roll her eyes. “Anyway, I came here to tell you to stop being such a wallflower. Mother always says fashion events are great education, so, don’t just stand there, drink up, loosen up and learn something!”

“What are you going to learn?”

Picking up her skirt, Chloé zeroed in on a girl in a Marc Jacobs dress covered in plastic daisies. “I’m to learn where she got those glittering black shoes!”

Shaking her head fondly, Marinette gave the room a quick sweep then decided against trying to butt into any conversations. Tonight, her design being the stand-out will have to enough. She’ll have to go through the pains of trying to get rich people to care about her some other time.

She retreated, paying more attention to the decor of the room than to where she was going, which proved to be a dumb move when she slammed into someone so hard the glass got crushed between them, slicing her fingers and drenching them in wine.

“I’m so sorry!”

Adrien Agreste stepped back, his white shirt now a dark burgundy. He gripped her wrist, raising her hand. “Your fingers!”

“Your shirt!”

“Hmm? Oh, my shirt.” He frowned at it, visibly distressed.

Oh, God. His shirt. She had ruined a shirt that had probably cost more than three-months’ rent, plus groceries. She had ruined the shirt of Gabriel Agreste’s son.

She could have enjoyed today’s achievement for five minutes, couldn’t she? Something terrible always had to ruin her day.

She pushed him back into the corridor, shutting the ballroom door before anyone could see him. “We have to get you another shirt from the dressing room!”

Strangely enough, Adrien wasn’t joining her in the panic over his shirt. “We have to get you a First Aid kid!”

He was more worried about her hand than her shirt…?

“There’s one in the bathroom, I think,” she said, now starting to feel the sting in her bleeding fingers. “Come with me.”

In the nearest bathroom, Marinette washed the blood off her fingers and threw the remains of the wine glass in the trash. She hoped they didn’t make her pay for that. Maybe she shouldn’t mention it to anyone…

“Here.” Adrien had brought the kit out from under the sink and held out his hand for hers.

He had nice hands, long palms with slender fingers, ideal for a pianist.

“Do you play the piano?”

Had she said that out loud?

Adrien nodded, disinfecting her cuts, making her hiss with pain. “Since I was nine. I rarely get the chance to do so now, though. My father used to always make me practice, so I resented doing it. But now that I don’t have anyone forcing me to play, I kind of miss it. Wish I could do it for fun.”

There was a ramble-y, awkward quality to the way he spoke, something she hadn’t expected in a million years from someone like him. It really endeared him to her.

“What do you do for fun these days?” she asked, watching him wrap gauze around her fingers one-by-one, followed by bandages, feeling her heart swell with gratitude.

“Doing things just for the fun of it was never part of my schedule,” he said quietly. “My life and now my image are very carefully maintained by father’s people, so I can’t do much.”

That was a lot sadder than she expected.

She found herself getting lost in the melancholy look on his face as he wrapped up her hands, only coming back to herself when his eyes met hers.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“How’s what?”

“Your hand.”

“Oh! Grood—Gate—Great!” she cleared her throat, feeling her ears burn. “We should get started on your shirt.”

Immediately, he took off his jacket, then started unbuttoning her shirt. She was about to tell him they should wait until they reached the dressing room, but she had lost her voice.

His shirt was just as smooth and tanned as the rest of him, with the lean musculature of a gymnast or a swimmer. She had only gotten the decency to turn away when he started washing the sticky wine off his chest.

“Um, about your shirt. How much did it cost?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, dabbing his chest dry. “I’ll get it dry-cleaned or something.”

“No, really. I ruined it, there’s got to be something I can do to repay you.”

He set a hand on her shoulder, shirt and jacket tucked under his arm. “It’s okay, I promise.”

She bit her lower lip, wondering if this would be the worst time to ask if there was a job opening at his father’s fashion line.

He opened the door for her, and she stepped out—

—and tripped over the bump in the carpet.

Strong hands caught her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck to steady herself.

“Are you alright?”

“I—I—”

The flash of a camera cut off her stuttering.

To their left, piling out of the ballroom doors were the photographers, journalists and even a couple of attendees with their phones out.

Adrien set her upright, hands still on her hips, and she pressed herself against him in frozen panic, staring at the cameras and phones like a deer in the headlights.

Then the journalists swarmed.

“What do we have here?”

“Mister Agreste, introduce us!”

“Come back here for a fun quickie or is this an ongoing thing?”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Mister Agreste!”

“Adrien!”

“ADRIEN!”

Slowly, Adrien turned then sprinted towards the dressing room, pulling Marinette along with him by the wrist.

They reached the room and locked the door.

Still reeling from the shock, she could barely mumble, “What just happened?”

“We’ll have to wait and see, I guess.”

They had found him a clean shirt—a waiter’s—and sat in comparative silence, with Marinette manically texting Alya about what just happened.

Sometime later, Audrey and Chloé had found them.

“You two sure caused a stir,” said Audrey.

“Way to steal my thunder, guys,” Chloé pouted, throwing her hands up in the air. “Today was supposed to be about me! _Me!_ ”

“It still is!” Marinette assured her, avoiding Adrien’s eyes as they followed her out. “This will all be forgotten by the time coverage of Le Bal hits the news tomorrow, right, Adrien?”

He looked from her to his phone nervously, then schooled his expression into a confident smile, one that was meant for the cameras no doubt. “Exactly, everyone will be talking about the girls and their dresses, as usual.”

“They better,” huffed Chloé as they exited the venue, getting into their limo first. “Sabrina! Bring me my chips!”

Sabrina slid in after her, handing her the armful of junk food. Audrey climbed in, already on the phone with her New York office, discussing the features from tonight to be placed on her magazine’s website. Hopefully neither she nor Chloé will forget to credit her as the designer in their online posts.

Adrien held the door open for her. She stopped by it, still chewing on her lip anxiously. “I’m really sorry if I got you in trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he said. “Actually, I think those little mishaps were the most fun I’ve had all year.”

“Fun?”

“Well, it got my heart pumping, didn’t it?” he said with a wink. “

The Bourgeois family dropped her back off at her parent’s bakery, where she gave them a clipped version of the day’s events over dinner then dragged herself up to bed.

Tikki, her chubby calico, joined her, curling up by her head, purrs soothing her nerves and some of the crippling embarrassment she had suffered today.

Good or bad, it’s like she’ll ever see Adrien Agreste ever again.

It felt like she had shut her eyes for a minute before her phone woke her up.

Groaning, she climbed down to her desk, the early morning light burning her retinas and phone proclaiming it to be nine o’clock. She answered her phone with a yawn, “Hello?”

 _“Girl, why didn’t you tell me?”_ Alya demanded. _“I’m your best friend, I deserve to know._

Confused, and having trouble keeping her eyes open, Marinette mumbled sleepily, “Tell you what?”

_“That you’re seeing Adrien Agreste of all people!”_

That woke her up.

“What are you talking about?”

Alya got quiet for a bit then simply said, _“Check the links I just sent.”_

Closing the call, she opened the first text from her to five separate links from gossip blogs to newspaper sites.

_Meet supermodel Adrien Agreste’s secret girlfriend!_

_Who is Agreste heir’s lady love?_

_French heartthrob, Adrien Agreste, caught in scandalous embrace with rumored girlfriend._

_Scandal! at the Ball: Last night’s annual Bal de Débutantes was derailed when a cavalier and a designer were caught hooking up in a bathroom._

_CAUGHT! Fashion mogul Gabriel Agreste’s son caught in intimate moment with mystery girl!_

All of them had pictures of them outside the bathroom, with Adrien shirtless and either holding her in a dip or pressing her to his chest protectively.

She hadn’t realized what the situation looked like. It really looked like they had been hooking up in that bathroom.

She was going to die of embarrassment. Better yet, she ought to chuck herself into the Seine and be done with it, because she was never going to live this down! This will get her blacklisted from the industry and she’ll never be a fashion designer—

Another call jostled her from her spiral of doom. It was an unknown number, but her trigger finger answered it without a thought.

“Hello?”

_“Is this Marinette?”_

She knew that voice.

“Adrien?”

_“Yeah, it’s me. I’m assuming you’ve heard the news?”_

“Adrien, I’m so sorry, I’ll talk to them, tell them everything.”

 _“Don’t do anything just yet, we’re going to need to use a publicist for this, have them contact all the news outlets and do this professionally,”_ he said. _“Trust me, you don’t want to deal with the media by yourself, they’re monstrous.”_

Putting him on speaker, she opened her computer to dig through all her social media, praying she wouldn’t find anything.

But she did. She had messages from over a hundred people on Facebook of all things, a medium she had thought abandoned by now, she had gained over three-thousand followers and dozens of tweets on Twitter, more than ten-thousand followers and hundreds of comments on her Instagram pictures of her work, and almost none of them were about Chloé.

In fact, a good chunk of them were questions about her, their ‘relationship’ and some were…

“I’m getting death threats,” she said, in shock. “People keep calling me a ‘slut’ and a ‘whore’ and saying they want to kill me. Adrien, what is going on?”

_“This is exactly what I was worried about,” he said. “Look, are you free today?”_

“Yes. Why?”

 _“I’ll come pick you up, my manager wants to discuss how to handle things from here, view our options and everything,”_ he said.

Swallowing, she got up, the cuts in her wrapped fingers throbbing with pain. “Okay, I’ll be ready in a bit.”

 _“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I got you dragged into this,”_ he said with a sigh. _“I’ll be over in ten minutes.”_

Ending the call, Marinette stood in her room, staring at her screen, watching notification after notification show up with every new tweet or comment, wondering just what she had gotten herself into.

This situation could go one of two ways, either very smoothly or very badly, and that all depended on what kind of luck she was on the receiving end of today.


	2. Chapter 2

So far, rumors of her dating Adrien weren’t considered a national priority outside gossip columns and celebrity-centric papers, so her parents knew nothing.

Which was a relief, she couldn’t handle the thought of explaining everything to them yet, not until she and Adrien settled things first. Besides, the only part of the Internet Tom and Sabine Dupain-Cheng cared for was their own website, the bakery’s social media and the odd YouTube cooking channel they got a few ideas and tips from.

As she snuck downstairs, dressed in the last outfit she had made for herself—a magenta coat with black buttons and pale pink gingham gown—Tikki wound herself between Marinette’s legs, chirping and purring, nearly tripping her down the last few steps.

In the end she missed the last three steps and plummeted with a yelp, gripping onto the curled end of the bannister just in time as Tikki shot into the kitchen where her parents were making breakfast.

“Where are you going so early?” Sabine asked, brows raised interestedly.

“I—uh have a meeting with a—” her brain blanked for a stressful second. “A prospective client! Yeah, a client I met at the debutante ball.”

Tom turned from the stove, already excited. “You didn’t tell us any of this yesterday!” he motioned for her to sit with his spatula. “Who is it? Who do they work for? What do you have in mind for them!”

Sabina set a hand on his arm. “Tom, let her speak.”

“I’m sorry, dear, I can’t help be invested in the start of our daughter’s career, I want to be sure that everything is going as it should for her.”

At the rate things were going in the fashion news circle, her career could end up being a flash in the pan.

Speaking of pans. “Papa, your omelette is burning.”

“OH!” Tom whisked the pan off the stove, sliding the slightly overcooked omelette onto a plate. “Well, there goes the presentation I was hoping to make. I’ve been looking up tutorials on those fluffy omelette rolls for a while now, but I can’t seem to get it right still.”

Tucking into her crêpes, more for show than for hunger, as her stomach was still in anxious knots. “More proof you were meant to be a baker than a cook then.”

Tikki hopped onto the table, licking at her crêpe’s whipped cream and chocolate syrup. Trust her to have the only cat in France with a sweet tooth.

“And this new client is more proof that you were born to be a designer,” Tom said, sitting across from her. “Now, tell us everything about last night again, and don’t leave anything out, especially about who this is and how you handled this meeting.”

“Oh, it was no big deal, he’s just a friend of Chloé’s…” to halt the conversation, she stuffed a huge chunk in her mouth, chewing very slowly, pretending to savor her food.

“And?” Sabine pressed.

Her phone chose that moment to ring, sparing her the awkward conversation.

“Ehwooh?” she mumbled through a mouthful of chewed-up crêpe.

There was a pause on the other end then an uncertain _“Is there someone wrong with the connection? Can you hear me?”_

At that, she swallowed her food. “No! Yes! I mean, it’s fine! Are you here?”

_“Yeah, I’m parked across the street.”_

She gave Tikki the rest of her breakfast and leapt towards the stairs. “I’ll be right down.”

“Marinette, wait!” Her parents chased her down to the bakery, asking her questions, if they could meet her ‘client’, if she’ll invite him in, but all she wanted to do was get this mess over with.

Through the bakery windows she could see a black limo right across the street.

“Here!” Tom shoved a small box of macaroons in her hand. “Remember, you need to make your clients feel important and keep them in a good mood, and the best way to make someone smile is—”

“To give them something sweet,” she continued, already sweating. “Thanks, Papa.”

Her parents ushered her out, waving at the limo.

She didn’t waste time rushing as Adrien’s chauffeur came around and opened a door for her.

Then, she heard it. The sound of a camera snapping.

Slowing to a stop, she found herself staring at a growing number of people, not with proper cameras but phones, all elbowing each other to get a good picture of her and likely the limo in the same frame.

Horror crept into her, chilling her blood. _These people knew where she lived_. A man with a professional’s camera elbowed to the front of the huddled group and yelled for her to smile, then another arrived with a film camera, yelling at her to answer her questions about Adrien, asking what was in the box.

These two had probably followed her home yesterday and the rest, students free on their weekend, must have her down via the Internet.

Too busy screaming at her for answers, to smile for their pictures, they didn’t have the decency to warn her that the traffic lights had changed. The frantic beeping of an oncoming car brought her back to reality, as it came to a belated halt before her, it wasn’t enough time for her to run.

“WATCH OUT!” Someone’s arms wrapped around her middle, whisking her off the street with a spin.

The car passed with a loud beep of its horn, the driver complaining out his window.

Heart pounding in her ears, Marinette couldn’t help envisioning what could have happened to her, what almost happened to her if Adrien hadn’t acted quickly.

Setting her down, he held her shoulders, green eyes searching her face. “Are you alright?”

Honestly, she was probably going to go the rest of the day reeling from the fact that she had stupidly crossed the road during a yellow light. But now, standing here after he’d just saved her from becoming roadkill, she could only nod and shove the box of macaroons at him.

Laughing tiredly, he ushered her in the limo. With one last look at her parents, who clung to each other, each likely having a brief heart attack as well, she waved them goodbye and resisted the urge to raise her middle finger at the people still photographing them.

Adrien slid in next to her and the limo quickly left her area.

Drumming on his knees, Adrien cleared his throat. “So, no need to ask how your morning was.”

Marinette let out a huff of humorless laughter, shaking her head.

“I’m really sorry about this, it was one thing for people to creep on you online, but I didn’t think they’d track down your house,” he said.

It took a lot to find her voice, and when she did, it came out wheezy, and kind of squeaky, like a rusty bicycle. “It’s not your fault, it’s not like you planned any of this.”

“Yeah, but I should have been more cautious, after all I’ve been dealing with the press for as long as I can remember, but they’ve gotten more invasive in the last few years.”

What could she say to something like that? Someone who had to get used to being hounded by cameras, and having thousands of strangers all up in his personal life, invested more in him than his work. But, as Chloé’s mother had once told her, no press is bad press, you could utilize any kind of attention to your advantage.

Unfortunately, Marinette hasn’t the slightest clue on how to do that. If only her parents weren’t so wholesome then maybe she could have developed the savvy, manipulative streak most in the industry seemed to have.

The limo stopped and the driver opened the door. Adrien slid out first, then stuck his hand back in for her.

Her mouth went dry at the gesture, she could only stare at the underside of his silver ring glinting in the sun. Swallowing, she set her limp hand in his palm, and let him help her out of the car.

Shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare, she found herself looking up at a quaint white building with black-iron balconies above a glass entrance. “Where are we?”

“Epicure, best place I could think of for a late breakfast.” He held his arms out to her. “After you, mademoiselle.”

It was hard not to snort at him, but her laughter ceased once she went inside.

White marble floors, gilded chandeliers with matching painting frames hung around the entrance, waiting room furniture straight out of a high-class auction and divided silk curtains hung over doorways in lieu of doors.

A girl with blonde pixie-cute and big, watery blue eyes popped up before them, greeting them with a high-pitched, cutesy voice. “Welcome to Epicure, do you have a reservation?”

Marinette could only let out an unending “Uhhh…” but Adrien stepped in, flashing her a pearly smile. “Yes, under ‘Agreste’.”

“Oh! Oh.” The girl looked up from her tablet, eyes even wider, like she recognized him. “Right this way, Mr. Agreste!”

She skipped ahead of them, leading them through one of the curtained entrances and into a room that was straight out of her grandmother’s magazines.

 _‘Opulent’_ was the first word that came to mind. A word that hadn’t occurred to her even in the nouveaux-riche extravaganza that was Le Bal de Débutantes. Small, circular tables with cream furniture filled the room, lit by the windowed-doors that led to a terrace seating, and were framed by thick floral curtains with a deep-red underside and in between each set of doors was a mounted trio of antique lamps that were outdone by the chandeliers that, true-to-their-name, held candle-lamps in a circle and were overlaid by gilded oak leaves.

Showing them their table, the girl handed them menus and introduced herself as Rose, before jetting off to call for a Juleka.

Marinette browsed the menus and held back a strangled noise. It was then and there that she realized that this place wasn’t under an apartment building like the non-chain restaurants she had been to, it was part of a hotel.

And there was no way she could afford a glass of water here.

He peered at her from over his menu. “Is there something wrong? Do you have any allergies?”

“I uh—” she scanned for the cheapest thing, already factoring in how much the cost of Chloé’s dress would last her if her career did go south from this PR disaster they were in. It didn’t help that she was the sort who thought spending more than ten euros on a plate was too much.

“It’s all just very pricey.”

“I should hope so. This place has three Michelin stars.”

Why was she not surprised? Michelin starts were only afforded to the best and even most inventive restaurants, according to the many competitive cooking shows she watched with her father. To have three of them, that would give them confidence to demand twenty euros for a shot-glass of pudding.

“I’m just wondering what to order that won’t cost a whole grocery list.”

“Oh, here you don’t order, you’re served the chef’s menu of the day, but you can make substitutions and order whichever drinks you want,” he said, returning to his browsing. “It’s alright, I’m paying.”

Sure enough, a girl with long dyed-black hair with purple-streaked bangs came to take their menus, ask for their drinks and fill their glasses with icy water. All the while, her hazel eyes roamed over the both of them. Marinette just knew that her and the blonde hostess had been gossiping about them and it made her more uneasy than the prospect of Adrien paying for all this.

Once Juleka was out of earshot, Marinette tried to breach the topic. “You really don’t have to.”

“You’d really expect me to bring you a place like this to split the check? What am I, Chloé?” he joked.

That rose her brows. “Wait, you know how she is?”

“I’ve got eyes, don’t I?” he leaned forward, setting his crossed arms on the table, the light from the glass doors behind them bounced off his hair, bringing out all the varying shades of yellow, from the most lustrous gold to the pearlescent streaks. “I’ve known her since we were kids, and apart from her butler I’m probably the only one that knows what she’s really like. She’s not a bad person, she’s just a bit clueless.”

“I think you just gave me the inspiration for the next thing I design for her,” she said, busying herself with sipping the water. It was so cold her two front teeth hurt. “I’ll make her Cher’s yellow tailored skirt-suit from _Clueless_.”

A slight frown pulled at his brows. “Is that a show?”

She set down her glass. “You’ve never seen _Clueless?_ ”

A bashful smile curled the edges of his mouth as shrugged. “I haven’t seen a lot of things. Not even my mother’s own movies.”

It was just then that she made the connection. Gabriel Agreste had married an acclaimed Occitan actress called Emilie Marsan, his muse who he first met after dressing her for a premiere at the Cannes Film Festival. That very same royal blue peacock dress was what had partially inspired the bee dress she had made for Chloé.

Last she had heard was that Emilie Agreste had disappeared. Presumably having taken off and abandoned her family after breaking under the pressure of being a star actress, a designer’s muse and a young mother.

A twinge of sympathetic pain pinched at her heartstrings. She couldn’t begin to wonder what Adrien’s life must have been like when his mother vanished, the rumors, the invasive journalists investigating their family issues, and the dissolution of his family. She didn’t blame him for not seeing her movies, all it would do was upset him.

She could already see the sadness in his eyes, but it quickly dispersed when the first dish arrived.

It was tiny. A sample. A small roll of fancy aged blue cheese pre-cut in slices and surrounded by a rose formation of toasted artisan brown bread with a variety of seeds, and in their very center was a few raspberries.

In case something else was to come, like the rest of the plate, she waited for him to start eating first, placing the raspberry and cheese on a piece of bread and popping it his mouth. “So, I guess we should start discussing our situation.”

“About that, how are we going to convince people it was an accident and that we’re not whatever they claim we are?”

“Easy,” he said. “We’re not.”

Marinette had chosen that moment to choke on a wayward sunflower seed. “What do you mean?”

“I spoke with my father’s manager Nathalie, and she said that denying things always increases belief, and prompts more people to look into something, so our best bet is to verify one of the stories, and hope everyone accepts that and moves along.”

She stared at him, puzzled. “How does that fix anything?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be an instant fix.” He had fully gone into business-mode, face closed off. “It’s going to need time for the public to lose interest.”

The waitress returned to swap the first plate with the second, seared blue lobster pieces with a savory sauce and puffed prawn crackers. That was when Marinette replayed all his words and asked, “What exactly are you saying here?”

“That we go along with the charade, say that yes, we are a couple and give one official story to the press, the fans, and the industry, and once all speculation is off, they’ll get bored on move on, but, you know, once the topic cools off,” he explained, with a lot of vague gestures. “What I’m saying is, Marinette, will you pretend to be my girlfriend?”

Figures, that the only time someone like him pays attention to someone like her it comes with the word ‘pretend’ attached. She guessed the only reason her ears didn’t perk up like a dog hearing the word ‘walk’ was because the term ‘girlfriend’ came after ‘pretend’.

It was then that she found herself reevaluating Adrien Agreste yet again, measuring all the facets of him that she’s seen so far, the confident model, the friendly boy who saved her from being run over and the one in damage control mode before her now. Pretty as he was, that was the reality of people in the fashion industry, they were a business and a lot rode on their image, so it’s no surprise he’d want a tight control on it.

But what did that mean for her?

“What happens if I do play along with this?” she asked.

He took out his phone, scrolling. “You’ve interned for Chloé’s mom, right?”

“Kinda still am, it’s a bit of a grey area for me since I’m technically not with a label but kinda freelance,” she said, the anxiety over her future back in a rush. “Why?”

“You know how people say you intern for experience and exposure? You can consider this arrangement that, if you want,” he said. “You’re a designer, right? I’m a supermodel, us being seen together seems only natural in our environment, and apart from getting a grip on the ‘secret girlfriend’ fiasco, it can help you out in the long-run in terms of exposure.” He showed her his phone’s screen. It was her Instagram account, but this time she had _twenty-thousand followers_ , how did that happen in just an hour? “Think about it, you get your name out there, more people pay attention to you, want to commission you, contract you for their labels, and who knows, if you’re up for it I can help you network with some big names personally.”

Her jaw dropped. If what he was saying was true, then this could turn out to be the opposite of what she’d feared, this could be great for her, especially if he did all the talking and introductions, things she dreaded doing and always flubbed somehow.

Trying to cool her excitement, she popped a blue lobster cracker in her mouth, smoothing her thoughts over until she swallowed. “Aside from the press leaving us alone, what do you get out of this?”

He ran a hand through his hair, somehow managing to effortlessly style it into a rakish look. “Having a public girlfriend would solve a lot of my problems, for one it would discourage some obsessive fans, the ones who think they have a chance with me and can stalk me into a relationship. It can, again, block other rumors, and give me a kind of approachable image still, that I’m a real person with a personal life and everything. Nathalie also pointed out that this could help ‘humanize’ my father and his brand, especially since he became a bit of a reclusive artist for a while after my mother…” he trailed off, becoming uncomfortable.

Shaking it off quick, he offered her a small, encouraging smile. “It’ll also give me a guaranteed date for whatever event I’m invited to, get the attendees off my back about being single.”

“So, I give you a better image and you create one for me, is that basically what it comes down to?”

“Pretty much,” he said with a nod. “What do you say?”

Chewing on her lip, she pretended to think it over, even though she knew she wanted to pounce on this opportunity immediately. Get the best kind of promotion, establish a name, fanbase and career and work connections just by pretending to be a handsome model’s girlfriend? She’d be crazy to let this offer go by, but she didn’t want to look crazy desperate.

“Hmm,” she hummed thoughtfully, tapping her chin. “Should we set some rules or something?”

“If you want Nathalie to draw a contract that can be arranged. In fact, Father would prefer it.”

Of course, he came with a contract. Maybe she’d get to meet Gabriel Agreste when she went to sign it.

“Okay, let’s settle the things we’ll put down first.” She raised her hand, bending down a finger. “One: you come meet my parents, because God knows they’ll want to see you for themselves and I don’t want to be grilled on this situation alone.”

“Deal.” Adrien mirrored her gesture. “Two: I assign you a bodyguard, especially now that anyone can find or even attack you.”

“You think the paparazzi will be at my house every day?” she squeaked.

“Marinette, anyone with a cellphone is a paparazzi today,” he tutted. “Also, crazy fangirls, they can be pretty scary, so I’d be happy to know that you’re safe always.”

“Bodyguard it is then,” she agreed, pulling down another finger. “Three: You don’t tell Chloé, she can’t keep a secret. Also, does your dad know all this?”

“He thinks we’re casually dating, but he thinks in general, if you’re famous you should have an NDA signed with anyone you date. Only Nathalie knows the truth about everything, and she’s sworn to secrecy.” Adrien played with his thumb. “Four: we follow each other on social media and post scheduled posts about each other, and with each other. We should discuss them beforehand and review each other’s drafts.”

“Like what? Cringey selfies with improbable poses captioned ‘with the bae’?” she stuck out her tongue, feigning disgust.

“Actually, that’s a good start. Come here.” Adrien motioned for her and held out his phone.

Cautious, she came to his side, entering the view of his phone camera. She nearly jumped when he set a hand on her waist and leaned against her. Instinctively, she found herself resting her hands on his shoulders and smiling her stupidly, holding back an excited squeal. Staged or not, she was this close to him, touching him, and for that she could probably never wash this coat ever again.

He snapped the picture, reviewed it as she returned to her seat and tapped out a caption. “There we go!”

Her own phone beeped with a notification. It took her to his Instagram page.

Sitting with his black button-up and lime waistcoat was Adrien, his hair standing up with slight waves and a blinding smile on his face as he leaned into her, and above him was Marinette, looking like she was the luckiest girl in the world in her prink coat, shade close to matching the blush on her cheeks. Written beneath them was _‘Since the cat’s out of the bag, here’s me at a late breakfast with my lady @MarinetteDP_ ♥ _’._

Despite the fact that she knew it wasn’t real, she felt a bit disappointed that it wasn’t, because it looked like all the other couples on social media. No one would be able to tell the difference between the lovey-dovey posts of her friends Ivan and Mylène, who had been together for going on ten years, and this one with a guy she’d just met yesterday.

Following him back and commenting red and black hearts on the picture, she had to wonder, just how many of the couples out there were this fake.

The third plate arrived, a bowl this time with a small column stack of blueberry-cheesecake pancakes with a side of berries, clotted cream and three miniature jugs of sauce. Stomach a little less tense, she dug in. “So, what is the story we’re going to tell our friends and family then? Is it going to be the official press version or a slightly different one?”

“Good question. The press gets a brief story, and the personal one should have details, because people are going to ask for those,” he said. “So, Lady Marinette, where and when did we meet, do you think?”

“I’d say through Chloé but that’s out of the question.”

Twisting his lips side to side in displeasure, he hummed. “Next best thing is another fashion-related thing. What school did you go to?”

“Chambre Syndicale.”

His brows rose interestedly, along with an impressed whistle. “How did you afford that.”

“Scholarship, courtesy of your father!”

“That’s perfect!” he perked up, eyes bright and shining. “I went over there a few times, kind of an ambassador for my father to see if his money was being put to good use. The department head would show me the recipients working in their workshops and such, I’ve met a couple.”

Well, that was odd. “Really? How come I’ve never seen you before?”

“Maybe you have and you forgot?”

“As if I could forget a face like yours,” left her mouth before she could hold it.

Adrien waggled his eyebrows at her. “I’m that pretty, huh?”

Blushing furiously, she returned to her pancakes. “Shut up. I’m just saying, I would remember meeting Gabriel Agreste’s son, considering he made my dreams possible.”

“Were you ever off on a sick day? I seem to remember going in once and finding one of the two recipients in the class missing.”

She nodded. “I got the flu my final year and had to continue work from home. But I left behind most of the project at the back.”

A small frown of recognition tugged at his face as his gaze became lost in thought. “Wait, did you make the ladybug dress?”

“Ladybug?”

“The red one with the black polka dots,” he said. “It looked like one of those bal masqué gowns, even had a mask.”

Swallowing her bite with a quick gulp of water, tapped her chest, thrilled that he’d noticed her work. “That was me!”

“So, ladybugs and bees, have any other bug designs left?” he teased. “I recommend a silkworm dress made entirely out of their silk.”

“Sure, if you fork over the crazy budget it will require,” she said. “Also, it wasn’t a ladybug, I just liked the pattern.”

“What’s wrong with ladybugs? They’re good luck, you know,” he pointed out. “Something we’re going to need a lot of to pull this whole stunt of.”

“You could say that again.”

He held out a hand to her. She stared at it for a bit, puzzled, and set her hand in his. It looked so fair and dainty in comparison to his long, tanned palms, but it fit within his curled fingers just perfectly. It was hard not to get overwhelmed.

No. She had to stop it. He was very attractive, yes, but he wasn’t what she wanted in life, he was too tactical, too unattainable, even now as she embarked on a deal to pretend he was, and not to mention, he lacked a lot of the qualities she wanted in a boyfriend.

Luka Couffaine flashed across her mind, but she pushed him aside. This was not the time to return to her years-long heartache about him.

“How long are we going to do this for?” she asked.

“A few months, that should be enough time to change public perception, go to a few events and for you two design a major thing or two, perhaps even for me,” he suggested. “It’s November now, and from what I know the best way to break off a PR relationship is after an event with a lot of coverage, so the breakup gets even more headlines, public sympathy and whatnot.”

“What event do you have in mind?”

“Paris Fashion Week?” he suggested. “The spring/summer show already passed, so let’s shoot for a bit after the fall/winter show in February, so…early-to-mid March?”

It was so weird, how calculated this whole thing was, likely why she couldn’t imagine forming an attachment to someone so image-oriented, it had a thick undercurrent of coldness to it. One she couldn’t tolerate for real as a partner.

“Sounds good.”

Both of their phones flashed in that moment. Adrien swiped his open and showed her the thousands of likes and hundreds of comments already beneath their pictures.

“Well, my ladybug, it looks we’ve crossed the first step of the plan.” He raised her hand to his mouth and pressed a light kiss to it. “Here’s to the next few months.”

From now till March, she would have to pull off being the girlfriend of Adrien Agreste. It would just be a few posts, public showings and answering rehearsed questions, then they were both free to pursue their lives after. It sounded like a good deal, a questionable one, but a good one nonetheless.

Besides, what was the worst that could happen?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy am I exhausted, I've had a long hard week but I still managed to punch this out in time for the weekend

The first week as Adrien Agreste’s official girlfriend was a mess.

Being a ‘hot new couple’ or even just a hot topic afforded them a lot of press and a lot more busybodies trying to find out everything about who some tabloids had dubbed ‘Agreste’s mystery brunette’.

Technically, she wasn’t a brunette. Her hair was black, so black it appeared blue in some lighting, and had made her the prime candidate for Snow White in a primary school play. Unfortunately, the stage fright had gotten the better of her and she couldn’t say her lines, and that was the last time Marinette had thought about being the center of attention. Kind of why she wanted to make clothes for others and never dreamed about being a model herself.

All in all, she really shouldn’t expect trashy tabloids to use proper grammar or true information, especially since they jumped on any chance they could to interview girls who had claimed to know her. It was one small mercy that when a reporter chased down Chloé, asking about Marinette, Sabrina had registered him as a threat and thrown Chloé’s raspberry vanilla latte in his face. Another journalist, this time a girl around their age, tried to swindle info about Marinette from Chloé again, but since it was under pretense that she was interviewing the Model of the Moment, Chloé got offended and stormed out. Whether she had hit the journalist in the face with her Hermès bag by accident or not, was a debate that derailed the celebrity gossip world from Adrien for a little bit.

So far, she hadn’t gotten any job offers or invites to anything. Whatever benefit there was to being his fake girlfriend had remained to be seen.

 

* * *

 

The second week as Adrien Agreste’s public girlfriend was a nightmare.

The follower count on all her social media accounts had quadrupled. That in itself had both good and bad results. Her parents—who thought she truly was dating Adrien—had encouraged her to take advantage of the situation and post something, anything, related to their work and hers.

After hours of debating a caption, she posted a specialized pony birthday cake made for Manon Chamack’s birthday, that was also posted on her mother Nadja’s Instagram, both tagging the bakery. Within the next afternoon, Tom and Sabine were assailed with cake requests for birthdays, cotillions and events, making them create—for the first time ever—a customer waiting-list.

Marinette didn’t have enough time to enjoy the traction, because along with the good came the bad. Namely, people prank-calling the bakery or reporting them, bringing not just health inspectors to their home but the police.

Some girls, God knew who, had said that cakes made by their parents had everything from raw eggshells to broken glass to bugs in them, which made them shut down for a week as they were inspected.

She knew this was all because of Adrien, but no matter how many times she told the police this, they said that lies or not, they had to follow protocol and shut down the bakery for at least three days.

Three days was a long time for a small business. It was also enough time for the rumors to spread across Paris, and for fake reviews to pop up on food-review sites, alienating all future customers and possibly old ones.

With her parents’ livelihood in the balance, all she could do was stay in her room, pressing Tikki against her face and crying out every frustrated and fearful tear into her fur. She wished she could do something, anything to stop this from happening, but whether she announced that she had broken up with Adrien or not, it was too late to erase the damage his deranged fangirls had done.

 

***

 

On the last day of inspection, Sabrina’s father showed up. Officer Raincomprix showed up said that they had passed the health inspection and that they were currently trying to trace the informant calls.

It was a small sigh of relief for her parents, but she knew it couldn’t possibly stop there. The reviews and the news now associated with their names were still there, and would take a while to shake.

Still devastated, she called Alya.

 _“This isn’t fair!”_ she complained heatedly. _“Adrien has to do something!”_

“Like what?” Marinette sighed sadly. She was sitting at her desk, scrolling through her Instagram, reporting as many commenters as she could. Alya had just walked her through blocking certain words from her feed, namely _‘whore’_ , _‘slut’_ , _‘kill’_ and _‘die’_ in both English and French.

_“Issue a statement! Use his fame for good or something! Tell people that the rumors were a lie and to visit your bakery!”_

“I don’t know, Alya. I can’t ask him to do that for me…”

_“He’s your boyfriend! It’s the least his rich ass can do for you.”_

“But I don’t want to ask him, it’s kind of, I don’t know, embarrassing. What if it looks bad, him promoting a disgraced bakery?”

She could feel Alya’s anger radiation through the phone. _“Grow a backbone, will you? It’s his fault that this happened anyway!”_

“It is?”

 _“Then whose fault do you think it is? Yours? No! It’s his crazy obsessive fangirls who think he’ll magically turn around and date them after dumping you because they said so.”_ The sound of frustrated typing clacked through the phone’s speaker. _“Just round up all the sites, send them to him and ask—wait, where did they go?”_

Marinette perked up, stopping her steady scroll down her last post. “What is it?”

_“I have all the sites that mention you and the bakery open on like a dozen tabs, but when I refreshed them—you’re not going to believe this, but I’m either redirecting to a ‘404 Error’ this page does not exist thing or back to the home page.”_

She sat up straight, quickly Google-ing her bakery, almost tipping Tikki off her lap.

All that came up was the bakery’s website, their Facebook page, the old reviews on foodie blogs and Paris eatery sites, and then the gossip sites citing them as her parents in articles about Adrien.

The shitstorm from the past week had vanished, like it never was.

“What…” she began, jaw dropping. “Alya, what?”

_“Exactly!”_

Disbelief settled within her, loosening her limbs that had been stiff sore from the strain of the past two weeks. As she tried every possible search to find the articles demeaning the Dupain-Cheng business and nothing turned up, she found herself wheezing with laughter.

“I can’t believe this.” In the midst of her exhausted giggling, tears began pouring out her inflamed eyes, not ones of dread but of disbelief. “They’re all gone.”

 _“Looks like loverboy did something after all,”_ Alya commented, sounding a bit smug. _“Good, I’d hate to have given him the shovel talk with an actual shovel.”_

 “You wouldn’t!”

 _“I would!”_ Alya insisted. _“I’d smack him with it, Loony Toons-style!”_

Marinette cracked up further, her laughter less an outlet for her days of unending stress more genuine joy this time.

_“So, when am I meeting Zoolander?”_

“Um, I have no idea.”

_“It better be soon, since I’ll be in town next week.”_

“It’s not really up to me, he’s been so busy that I haven’t seen him since…”

_“Since?”_

Since they’d struck their deal and become ‘Instagram official’.

“Since we went to that fancy restaurant.” At that, she found a way to distract from the topic. “You know, I think I recognized some of the waitresses there. Didn’t we have a classmate called Rose Lavillant in the last year at Dupont collège?”

Alya paused for a bit, humming thoughtfully. _“The girl with the big princess curls and Bratz-doll eyes from Year Three?”_

“Yes! That one! I think it was here, but she’s cut off all her hair.”

_“Oh, God, why would anyone with her features do that? It must make her head look even bigger than before.”_

“It does!”

Alya let out a wistful sigh. _“You know, I miss those days, when the biggest thing we had to worry about was Math homework.”_

Marinette felt that sentiment in her soul. What she would give to back to being fifteen and full of ridiculous hope for the future, a future that didn’t involve the Internet threatening her parents’ livelihood. “Math? Chemistry was the worst.”

_“Chemistry as a subject wasn’t so bad, Mme. Mendeleiev was just a crap teacher.”_

“True. Remember all the times she kicked Max out for being a ‘smartass’?”

_“She just knew he could teach the class better than her, the miserable old bat.”_

They both cracked up, their laughter fizzling out slowly.

Feeling immensely better, she picked up the phone, smiling at Alya’s profile picture enlarged during their call, one of the both of them in matching winter gear from last Christmas, Alya’s in Santa-red and Marinette’s in rosy-pink. “I miss you, Lily.”

 _“I miss you too,”_ Alya cooed. _“Fear not, I’ll be on your doorstep before you know it. I’ll take a ton of pictures of your parents’ stuff for my blog and write an article about how they make the best macaroons in Paris!”_

“I wish I could hug you right now.”

_“Start a countdown till you can! And remember, tell loverboy he has to meet me, no excuses!”_

It was a good thing this wasn’t a video-call, or else she would have seen Marinette’s panicked cringe. “Will do!”

_“Talk to you later, Mari!”_

“Bye!”

With a loud _‘mwah!’_ Alya ended the call and Marinette sagged in her seat.

As emotionally exhausting as this whole ordeal was, she couldn’t help the small, silly smile that crept up her face as she thought about the vanishing smear campaign.

As disappointing as the thought was, Adrien probably had nothing to do with it. It would likely be his manager who did all this.

She didn’t know why that concept bothered her so much. Regardless of who did it, it was still the same result and that’s all she wanted, right?

Right?

 

* * *

 

 

The third week of being Adrien Agreste’s public girlfriend finally felt like a job.

And with jobs came benefits and hazards.

A small local fashion house had her leaping out of bed at 7 am to answer a call. They asked her about designing jackets like the green work-in-progress she had posted on Instagram two weeks ago. They were hoping to squeeze her into the last-minute winter collection and she couldn’t say ‘Yes!’ fast enough.

The jacket was dozens of green and white poplar leaves placed on a firm faux-leather, it wouldn’t provide much warmth, but it would suit the autumn-turned-winter aesthetic, especially in all the possible leaf colors, from two shades of green and poplar-white to the autumnal orange, red, yellow and brown.

Excited, she texted Adrien the news, and he quickly replied with a _‘Congrats :)_ _! It’s about time someone gave you a call!’_

In her haste to head out and buy material, Marinette didn’t have the time—or the nerve, as Alya would call it—to ask him about the vanishing news articles and page sites or if he had anything to do with the job call.

In a better mood, Marinette stuffed her cloth shopping bags into her bicycle basket and pedaled her way to the shopping district, headphones in her ears, pumping upbeat, sugary 00’s pop as ideas and designs swum in her head.

As she approached her first stop, she lifted her legs, letting the wheels take her down the road with decreasing momentum, timing it perfectly to the last few seconds of A*Teens’ _Upside Down_.

Disembarking and picking up her bags, she skipped into _Amandine’s_ , a shop with rusting metal _c. 1898_ nailed by its name, one of the oldest yet more affordable places a seamstress could get rolls of fabric, lace and the seasonal rack of knitting supplies.

Marinette hummed along to her playlist’s random suggestions as she picked out the colors, materials and estimated how much of each she would need, hoping that whatever they paid her would make up for the cost and for her effort. She’d hate to do all of this for ‘exposure’ again.

Arms full, she took her things up to the front, folded them into her bags and waved at Colette, the owner’s granddaughter, as she skipped out.

Lost in thought, debating how much her hands would hurt after she individually cut-out all the leaves from her material, she missed the first screech from across the road.

The second time, it was much closer and it had ripped the headphones right out of her ears, making her return to the present with a startled gasp.

Three girls stood by her, no older than fifteen, and the one that gripped her headphones was the tallest and angriest. “You will get away from him.” she demanded. “You will leave Adrien alone, do you understand?”

Stunned, and a little scared, Marinette dazedly asked, “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me! I don’t know what you did to make him date you, but you’re going to stop and never come near him again!”

“Make him? I didn’t do anything.”

The girl punched her in the arm so hard she felt a bruise instantly form. “Don’t lie to us! We know you did something! Tricked him! Threatened him! I bet you’re even being paid to do this, you ugly whore!”

Marinette stumbled back, trying to head back to her bike when the girls all gripped her by the arm, jacket and hair and pulled her back. She screamed, dropping her bags, and tried peeling their hands off her, but they wouldn’t let go.

They all screamed demands and accusations at her in a cacophony of shrill screeching, shaking her back and forth, the grip on her hair making her cry.

“Stop! I didn’t do anything! Please stop!”

They wouldn’t stop, and no one on the entire street had stopped to help her as they began kicking her, trying to force her down.

A car horn blasted a long, loud note as a car came to a screeching halt by them.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!”

One girl’s grip loosened and Marinette’s knees hit the hot pavement just in time to see shiny leather shoes step out of a limo and leap onto the sidewalk.

The girls dropped her, letting slump on the ground, sobbing as she crawled to her fallen material, bunching it back in their bags.

The girls huddled around the man, clucking like excited chickens but a booming shout of “NO!” silenced them.

Adrien pushed past them, business casual in dark-green jeans, an emerald waistcoat and black dress shirt, and kneeled by her, pulling her into his chest. “Marinette, are you alright?”

Shock briefly overrode her resurfacing misery, silencing the storm of anguish not just from their attack but from the harassment she’d been getting online and the ones like them that nearly put her family out of a job. Just when she thought things had begun to look up, that she began to get excited about a job, this happened.

But as much as she wanted to blame him for it, when he held her close she couldn’t help but sag against him, tear-stained cheek against the rough, shiny material of his waistcoat, wanting to melt into him and be lulled to sleep by the cool cologne his clothes were drenched in. It smelled expensive, and possibly blue, like the commercial she had seen for him, an Agreste _eau_ _pur l’homme_ with him diving in crystal-blue waters off the coast of South of France.

The calming fantasy lasting until she realized the distant rumbling wasn’t the sound of the crashing waves from the TV ad, but Adrien’s voice, the loudest she had ever heard it as he yelled at the girls.

Standing up, he lifted Marinette to her feet, still holding her against him. “And if I see you near her ever again I’ll have you arrested!”

The girls began to protest but he pushed past them, urging her into the limo first. The last thing he did before shutting the door in their faces was shout “Go!”

Before she had slipped into this fiasco, she had always thought that being with a famous guy ought to have been a dream come true, opening many doors in the industry to her, having connections handed to her, being considered lucky for having the guy every girl wanted.

But that, in itself, was the problem. Having the guy every girl wanted was not fun when it made her the target of all those furious girls who spammed her feeds with insults on everything from her looks to her work, attacking her parents’ work, some even clobbering conspiracy theories together to explain why a supermodel would be seen with a girl as plain as her…

Then, the attacks escalated, going offline and into the real world. The next time someone got a hold of her, it could end with her getting stabbed.

A warm hand settled on her shoulder. She jerked to face him, blinking the last round of tears out of her eyes. He leaned in closer, concern emanating from his big, yellow-green eyes. “Are you alright?”

Any other time, Marinette would have done the right thing and spared his feelings, saying that yes, she was alright. But she couldn’t, not now.

“No,” she wheezed. “Did you know this would happen to me?”

His expression turned sheepish. “Not like this. I didn’t think I’d be worth this level of attention, I’m not a popstar or an actor, you know?”

“Your father is Gabriel Agreste, a rockstar designer.”

He chuckled tiredly. “I guess. But that’s him, that shouldn’t afford me this kind of scary attention, just a general celebrity-slash-online-slash-industry gossip.”

“Well, at least one good thing came out of this,” she said sarcastically. “Now you now you know that being a supermodel means being a fashion popstar.”

“Shh, not so loud. You’ll give my father ideas for the next ad I do for his line,” he joked. “Trust me, you don’t want to hear me sing.”

Marinette gave him a disbelieving look. “What? You sound less like Freddie Mercury and more like Brendon Urie? Oh, the horror.”

“More like a yowling cat in an alleyway at night.”

Unexpectedly, she laughed. Not a small huff, but a big rip of cackling laughter.

His smile grew. “I’m truly sorry, Marinette. I did my best about the articles about your bakery and most of the bad articles, the ones that ‘interviewed’ classmates, and such, but it seems the best way to soothe this madness is to leave no room for speculation.”

“Wait, you got rid of all those articles?”

He nodded. “I’ve been keeping an eye on coverage regarding us, especially you and anyone close to you, because I know how mean the press can get.”

Touched, she tried her best to give him a smile, but it wobbled. That was, until the end of his prior statement settled between her ears. “What do you mean ‘leave no room for speculation’? On that note, how did you know I was here?”

“Well…” he trailed off, looking out the window. “I dropped by your house to take you to lunch, discuss the next phase of our PR game, and your mom said you’d be at that clothe place, and here we are.”

“And that next phase is?”

“A public appearance at a small party, to start,” he peeked back at her nervously, still angling his body away from her, like he expected her to lash out at him. “It’s not so much a fashion event as it is a high society party, where there will be some vetted coverage, and pictures the attendees themselves will post online.”

She considered his words, still uncertain.

“There won’t be any fights, not unless someone gets really drunk,” he assured.

“That’s for parties, but what do I about everyday life from now on? They know where I live.”

He nodded understandingly. “I wanted to suggest this earlier, but I had a feeling you wouldn’t agree but since I have one, you should too.”

“Have what?”

“A bodyguard,” he said. “He won’t live with you, but whenever you need to go anywhere, he’ll come pick you up and stay one step behind you, just in case anything like this—or worse—happens again.”

The first thought at the word ‘bodyguard’ was of Whitney Houston belting _I Will Always Love You_ , the second was a hint of unease, and the last was more acceptance than complaint.

“If you want to call off this deal, I completely understand.”

“No!”

That came out a lot more forceful than she anticipated.

Clearing her throat, she tried again. “It’s not like us suddenly ‘breaking up’ will fix anything. They’ll still come after me, not to mention it gives them the wrong idea.”

His brows rose a little, confused. “What idea?”

Feeling a bit wound up at the memory of secondary school, and every awful girl she’d crossed paths with, Marinette wiped her eyes and straightened up. “That being a bully gets you what you want in the end, and the last thing I want to do is validate that idea. I won’t give them what they want, no matter how hard they pull my hair.”

His smile grew a little nervous, but his eyes remained on her, bright with intrigue. “Bodyguard approved then?”

“Yes. Plus, he could help me carry my supplies the next time I go shopping for work.”

“That’s the spirit!”

The limo came to a slow stop and Adrien got out without waiting for his driver, holding the door open for her. Slipping out, she found them before a hole-in-the-wall ice cream parlor called Zenaïde.

“Why here of all places?” she asked as he ushered her in.

“Well, it will be less attention, and it will take longer for us to be recognized,” he said, heading for a booth at the back. “Also, I’ve always wanted a milkshake, figured it I should try it with you, since we’re both in this new experience together.”

That warmed her heart, and her face a bit. “How have you never had a milkshake?”

“Model diet, and before that, we ate what the chef made us, which was always something obnoxiously inventive. I just wanted simple snacks sometimes.”

She slid into the seat across from him. “None of that peasant food for Baby Adrien, huh?”

He gave her big sad eyes, somehow dilating his pupils like Puss in Boots. “Not even candy bars, nothing less than Hershey.”

“Aww, poor little rich boy,” she cooed.

He instantly brightened up. “Feeling better?”

“I will, once I have a—” she peered at the menu stand between them. “—strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream.”

He checked the available drinks with an engrossed stare. “These all sound so good, I want to get at least two but that would be too much.”

“I can recommend the strawberry, I get that everywhere. The chocolate is really up to the place because sometimes it just tastes like dusty coco powder, and vanilla is just a base flavor, but there’s this cookies-and-cream Oreo milkshake if you want to hit two junk food-birds with one stone.”

“Have you tried it?”

“No, but now that you mention it, I would like a sip from yours.”

He tapped on his chin thoughtfully. “Here’s a thought, how about we share both? That way we both get a taste of each.”

“Sounds good.”

Adrien waved over a waitress, ordered the milkshakes and refocused all his attention back on her. It made her a bit self-conscious, always as much as all the hate comments about her appearance did.

“What?”

“Nothing, just—just thinking about you said about bullies, which made me rethink my idea of school,” he said. “I never went to school, I just had tutors at home. But I always wanted to go.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Overprotective dad.”

“Ah. I forgot. No wonder your only friend is Chloé.”

He shook his head, clucking his tongue in mock-disappointment. “Chloé’s not that bad, especially compared to the others in our circle.”

“The ones you want me to meet at that party? Where is it again?”

“The host’s villa in Trocadéro, it has a nice view of the Seine.”

Marinette let out a low whistle. That was one of the more expensive districts in Paris. But what else did she expect from the friends of the guy she met at a debutant ball of all things?

“What do I wear to something like that?”

“So, you’re going?”

She considered it. Really considered it.

“That depends, can I bring a friend?”

“Of course!” he seemed excited at the prospect of friends. “But, you can’t tell any of your friends, remember?”

“Guess we’ll have to play up the act for Alya, God knows she wants to meet my ‘rich boyfriend’.”

“Then she will.”

“So, it’s next weekend. I come, pick up you and your friend, we go to the party, be seen, shake hands, take pictures, maybe have you make some connections?”

She nodded enthusiastically at the mention of connections. Then she remembered her new job. “I’ll have to get a lot of work done for that shop that commissioned me first, so I don’t know if I’ll have enough money left for a dress until I get paid.”

“No need, whatever you want, I’ll buy it for you.”

She stared at him. “Really?”

“Yeah, here.” He took out his wallet and handed her a card. “Use this, get whatever, supplies for work, a dress, shoes, the works.”

Taking it hesitantly, she had a hard time wrapping her head around the thought of it. “What if it’s too expensive?”

Adrien shrugged. “It’s the least you deserve after putting up with all that hate your family got, and the attack today.”

“But Adrien—”

“No ‘buts’. Get the sparkliest Zuhair Murad dress if you want, you deserve it.”

She couldn’t believe it, she almost felt the urge to cry again, but from disbelief. He trusted her with his money, and they weren’t even in a real relationship, they weren’t even really friends.

He really was a nice guy, she’d hate to a vicious society girl to have sunk her claws into him, take advantage of his trusting demeanor, so it’s a good thing he had her as shield now.

The waitress dropped off their shakes and Adrien pulled the glasses together, as if measuring them. “Which to start with?”

She tapped the rim of the pink milkshake first. “Start simple, don’t overwhelm yourself with sugary cookies on your first try.”

“Wise choice, milady.” And with that, he took his first sip.

He closed his eyes, relishing the taste, looking like he had just sunk into a nice hot bath.

It was a pretty distracting expression. She almost didn’t hear him when he offered the glass back to her.

“Do you want me to drink half and leave you half? Or should we trade sips?”

Flustered she found herself at a loss for words.

“Or we could finish it at the same time.” He stuck another straw in the glass, urging her to lean in. “There we go.”

They leaned in at once, bumping their foreheads together, laughing briefly, awkwardly.

“Sorry,” she said rubbing her head.

His nose wrinkled cutely as he continued chuckling. “It’s okay, one at a time now.”

She started sipping first, then he followed.

There they sat, sharing a milkshake like a couple in an old teen movie, making her almost forget the situation as all her thoughts faded into the surrounding chatter of the parlor.

It almost felt like a real date.

A huge part of her wanted it to be so.

And she hated it.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me here on [**Tumblr**](http://lucyclairedelune.tumblr.com)!
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>  _Don't forget to leave a comment!_ (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧


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